Текст книги "Devil's Gate"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Graham Brown,Clive Cussler
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

8

THE CONTINENT OF AFRICA sits at the oceanic crossroads. But despite this position, it has always been more of a roadblock to trade than a thoroughfare. Its sheer size and inhospitable habitats – from desert sands in the Sahara to the dark impenetrable jungles across its vast central region – made it impossible to cross profitably.

In the past, ships that wished to swap oceans were forced to sail on a ten-thousand-mile journey that took them around South Africa, into some of the most treacherous waters in the world and past a point wistfully named the Cape of Good Hope, though its original name was the more accurate Cabo de Tormentas: Cape of Storms.

The completion of the Suez Canal made the journey unnecessary, but did little to bring Africa into the modern world. Quite the contrary. Now ships had only to cut the corner, slip through the Suez, and they were soon on their way to the Middle East and its oil fields, Asia and its factories, Australia and its mines.

As world commerce boomed, Africa rotted like vegetables left unclaimed on the dock beneath the withering sun.

Inland could be found genocide, starvation, and disease, while along the African coasts lie some of the most lawless places in the world. Somalia is for all intents and purposes a land of anarchy; the Sudan is little better. Less well known but almost as forlorn are the West African countries of the Ivory Coast, Liberia, and Sierra Leone.

Liberia’s troubles were well chronicled, as leader after leader fell amid scandal and corruption, and the country lurched toward anarchy and mayhem. The Ivory Coast was much the same.

And for much of its history, Sierra Leone had fared even worse. Not too long ago, the country had been considered a more dangerous place than Afghanistan and had a lower standard of living than Haiti and Ethiopia. In fact, Sierra Leone had once been so weak that a small group of South African mercenaries had all but taken it over.

The group, operating under the “invite” of the existing regime and calling themselves “Executive Outcomes,” routed a much larger group of rebels who threatened to take over the mines. The nation’s only real source of wealth at the time.

The mercenaries then proceeded to protect and control these assets, quadrupling production and taking a large cut for themselves in the process.

Into this world of instability came Djemma Garand. A native of Sierra Leone but trained by these South African mercenaries, Djemma rose to power in Sierra Leone’s military, making important friends and ensuring that his units were trained, disciplined, and ready.

It took decades, but eventually the opportunity presented itself, and Djemma took power in a bloodless coup. In the years since, he had consolidated his position, raised the nation’s standard of living, and earned the grudging approval of the West. At least his regime was stable, even if it wasn’t democratic.

As if to show their approval they’d even stopped asking about the welfare and whereabouts of Nathaniel Garand, Djemma’s brother and a robust voice for democracy, who had been rotting in one of the country’s prisons for the last three years.

Djemma considered imprisoning his own brother both his darkest moment and also his finest. Personally, it sickened him, but the moment he’d given the order any fears he’d had about his own ability to do what was necessary for his country vanished. Places like Sierra Leone were not ready for democracy, but with a strong, unquestioned hand they might rise to that point someday.

Standing on the marble floors of his palace, Djemma looked like any other African dictator. He wore a military uniform with a pound of medals dangling from his chest. He shielded his eyes with expensive sunglasses and carried a riding crop, which he liked to slam on flat surfaces when he felt his point was being taken too lightly.

He’d seen the movie Pattonseveral times and admired the general’s way. He also found it interesting that Patton considered himself a reincarnation of the African Hannibal. For Hannibal’s legend and his exploits held special interest to Djemma Garand.

In many ways the Carthaginian general was the last African to shake the world with his sword. He went over the Alps with an army and his elephants, ravaging the Roman Empire on its home soil for years, defeating legion after legion, and failing to bring it down only because he had no siege engines with which to attack the capital of Rome.

Since then, amid wars and coups and everything else that occurred on the African continent, the rest of the world only watched with disinterest. They worried about the flow of minerals and oil and precious metals, but even a temporary stoppage or civil war or more starvation had little effect on them.

After a little saber rattling, new dictators would eagerly agree to the same terms as the old. Most for them, and a few pennies for the poor. As long as business was conducted this way, what did the world have to worry about?

Seeing this, living it, breathing it, Djemma Garand intended his rule to be something more. Though he traveled in an armored Rolls-Royce, flanked by Humvees with machine guns, Djemma vowed to be more than a despot. He desired a legacy that would leave his people better off for all eternity.

But to do that would mean more than changing his country; it would require changing Sierra Leone’s place in the world. And to do that he needed a weapon that could reach beyond African shores and shake that world, a modern version of Hannibal’s elephants.

And that weapon was almost in his grasp.

Taking a seat behind an imposing mahogany desk, Djemma carefully placed his sunglasses on one corner and waited for the phone to buzz. Finally, a light illuminated.

Gently, without any rush, he lifted the receiver.

“Andras,” he said quietly. “You’d better have good news.”

“Some,” the salty voice replied.

“That is not the kind of answer I expect from you,” Djemma said. “Explain.”

“Your weapon didn’t work as advertised,” Andras said. “Oh, it damaged the ship all right, but it did no better than last time. Took out the navigation and most of the controls, but she kept steaming under partial power, and half the crew survived, those trapped deep inside. This device of yours is not doing what you expect.”

Djemma did not like the sound of that. Little else could so easily send him into a rage as to hear that his project, his own Weapon of Mass Destruction, had yet again failed to perform up to standards.

He covered the phone, snapped his fingers at an aide, and scribbled a name on a piece of paper.

“Bring him to me,” he said, handing the scrap to the aide.

“How many of the crew lived?” he asked, returning his attention to the call.

“About half,” Andras said.

“I trust they no longer survive.”

“No,” Andras said. “They’re gone.”

A slight hesitation in Andras’s voice concerned Djemma, but he pressed forward. “What about the cargo?”

“Off-loaded and on its way to you,” Andras insisted.

“And the ship?”

“Rusting on the bottom.”

“Then what is it you’re not telling me?” Djemma said, growing tired of having to pry information from his most highly paid asset.

Andras cleared his throat. “Someone tried to stop us. Americans. I would guess a SEAL team or two. Makes me think your secret has leaked out.”

Djemma considered the possibility and then rejected it. If information had leaked, they would have been stopped before the attack commenced. More likely a simple rescue party with a few guns.

“Did you deal with them?”

“I escaped and covered our trail,” Andras said. “There was nothing else I could do.”

Djemma was not used to hearing that someone who’d tangled with The Knife had survived. “I hate to think you’re going soft on me,” he said.

“Not on your life. These men were tough. You’d better find out who they were.”

Djemma nodded. For once they agreed.

“And what about your operation…” Andras said. “Python, is it? Will that still be going off?”

Operation Python was Djemma’s masterstroke. If it succeeded, it would bring his country endless wealth, stability, and prosperity. And if it failed… Djemma didn’t want to think about that prospect. But if his weapon did not work as planned, failure was a real possibility.

“It cannot be delayed much longer,” Djemma said.

“Want me to come lend a hand?” Andras offered. His voice dripped with cynicism. He’d made it clear earlier that he thought Djemma was mad for attempting what he was about to do. Even madder for trusting his own army to do it. But Andras was an outsider, he didn’t know Djemma’s troops the way their general and leader did.

Djemma smiled. By using Andras’s services, he was making the man incredibly rich, but if there was a way to get even more wealth and power Djemma expected Andras would follow it. There was no filling his insatiable pockets.

“Where I grew up,” Djemma said, “the old women had a saying. A snake in the garden is a good thing. It eats the rats that devour the crops. But a snake in the house is a danger. It will kill the master and eat the baby, and the house will ring with sorrow.”

He paused and then clarified. “You will get your money, Andras, perhaps enough to buy a small country of your own. But if you ever set foot on the soil of Sierra Leone, I will have you killed and your bones scattered to the dogs in my courtyard.”

Silence rang across the phone line, followed by soft laughter.

“The UN is wrong about you,” Andras said. “You are ruthless. Africa could use more men like you, not less. But in the meantime, as long you keep paying, I’ll keep working. Don’t run out of money like the papers say you’re about to. I would hate to extract my fees in less pleasant ways.”

The two men understood each other. The Knife was not afraid of Djemma, even though he should be. He was not afraid of anything. This is why Djemma had chosen him.

“Get yourself to Santa Maria,” he said. “I will give you further instructions once you arrive.”

“What about the Kinjara Maru?” Andras asked. “What if someone goes to look at her?”

“I have plans to deal with that if it occurs,” Djemma said.

Andras laughed again. “Plans for everything,” he said sarcastically. “You make me laugh, Garand. Good luck with your mad plans, fearless leader. I will watch the papers and root for your side.”

The phone clicked, the line went dead, and Djemma placed his receiver down on its cradle. He sipped water from a glass of fine crystal and looked up as the doors to his office opened.

The aide he’d sent running out came back in. Two of Djemma’s personal guards followed, escorting a white man who looked less than happy to be present.

The guards and the aide left. The twelve-foot-tall doors closed with a thud. Djemma and the Caucasian man stood facing each other.

“Mr. Cochrane,” Djemma said officiously. “Your weapon has failed… once again.”

Alexander Cochrane stood like a scolded child might, staring with insolence at his would-be father. Djemma did not care. There would be success or there would be consequences.

9

ALEXANDER COCHRANE WALKED toward Djemma’s desk with a sense of foreboding far beyond anything he could recall. For seventeen months, Cochrane had been toiling to construct a directed-energy weapon of incredible power.

This weapon would use superconducting magnets, like those Cochrane had designed for the Large Hadron Collider what seemed like several lifetimes ago. It would accelerate and fire various charged particles at almost the speed of light in a tight beam that could be rapidly “painted” over a target, destroying electronics, computers, and other circuitry.

If tuned correctly, the weapon could act like a giant microwave beam, heating organic matter, cooking its targets from the inside out, setting them afire, even if they took cover behind steel-and-concrete walls.

Through the skies, Cochrane’s weapon could shoot down attacking aircraft at ranges of two hundred miles or more, or it could wipe out approaching armies by sweeping back and forth across the battlefield like a garden hose aimed at approaching ants.

At its ultimate level of development, Cochrane’s weapon could destroy a city, not like an atomic bomb, not with fiery heat or explosive force, but with precision, cutting here and there like a surgeon’s scalpel, turning one block after another into a wasteland.

It could kill the occupants or leave them alive, at Cochrane’s – or Djemma’s – choosing. But even if tuned to destroy electronics and systems only, it could render a city uninhabitable by destroying all modern technology within it in a matter of seconds. Without computers, phones, an electrical grid, or running water, today’s modern, integrated city would become a land of anarchy or a ghost town shortly after Cochrane – or Djemma – set his sights on it.

But to do all that, the weapon had to work, and so far the results were inconclusive.

“I told you it needs more testing,” Cochrane stammered.

“This was supposed to be the final test,” Djemma said.

“What happened to the boat?”

“You mean the ship,” Djemma corrected.

“Ship, boat,” Cochrane said, “same thing to me,”

“Your lack of precision bothers me,” Djemma replied, with an undertone to his words. “A ninety-thousand-ton vessel is not a boat.”

“What happened to the ship?” Cochrane asked, sick and tired of Djemma’s condescending attitude. The man acted as if he were asking Cochrane to build a television set or assemble a computer from prefabricated parts.

“The Kinjara Maruhas gone down to… what do you Americans call it? Ah, yes, Mr. Davy Jones’s locker.”

“And the cargo?” he asked. Nothing would improve without this cargo.

“One hundred metric tons of titanium-doped YBCO,” Djemma said. “Removed as per your request.”

Cochrane breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, that’s good news.”

“No!” Djemma snapped, slamming his riding crop on the desk. “Good news would have meant your promises to me were kept. Good news would have been to hear that your weapon worked as you said it would, completely disabling the ship and killing all the crew instantly. As it was, the ship continued under power, and there were survivors, who we had to deal with.”

Cochrane had grown used to Djemma’s moodiness but was stunned by the sudden anger. He jumped at the snap of the crop. Still, his self-confidence was not shaken.

“So what?” he said finally.

“So, our men were exposed,” Djemma said. “A group of Americans tried to interfere. We have now attracted the wrong kind of attention. All thanks to you and your lack of precision.”

Cochrane shifted in his chair. His sense of discomfort would have turned into outright fear were it not for one simple fact. Even though Djemma could have him killed with the snap of his fingers, he never would as long as he needed and wanted the weapon to work.

So far, Cochrane had covered his bases well, everything from insisting his disappearance be made to look like a kidnapping – so he could go back to the industrial world someday – to the way he’d gone about constructing Djemma’s weapon.

He’d done all the development work himself, drawn up the plans and supervised the efforts on-site. He’d made himself so integral to the project that Djemma could do little to threaten him, unless he wished to abandon the hope of finishing it and possessing the final version of the weapon.

Remembering this, Cochrane spoke with renewed confidence.

“All systems take time to fine-tune,” he insisted. “Do you think they build the supercolliders from scratch and then just flip the switch and watch them go? Of course not. There are months and months of tests and calibration before they run even the most basic experiment.”

“You’ve had months,” Djemma said pointedly. “And I don’t want any more experiments. The next test will be full-scale.”

“The weapon isn’t ready,” Cochrane insisted.

Djemma’s glare rose to a new level of intensity. “It had better be,” he warned. “Or you will burn alongside me when they come for us.”

Cochrane paused. Djemma’s words confused him. Why would they burn? All along, Djemma had insisted they would sell the weapon, not to one world power but to all of them. Let them point Cochrane’s gun at one another’s heads much as they’d pointed nuclear missiles at one another for fifty years. They would never use it, and both Cochrane and Djemma would be rich. There was no danger in that. And no need to rush.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“I have something else in mind from what I told you,” Djemma said. “Forgive me for deceiving such an honorable man.”

The sarcasm in Djemma’s voice showed how he really viewed Cochrane, and despite the lure of wealth and even clandestine fame, Cochrane suddenly felt worse than he ever had at CERN.

Djemma pulled a file and leafed through it. “You come to my country with your careful plans,” he said. “Plans to have your cake and eat it too. To build a Weapon of Mass Destruction, deposit millions in Bahamian and Swiss banks, and then flee back to the high life, no doubt spinning tales of your great hardship and daring escape.”

“We had a deal.”

“Deals change, Cochrane,” the African leader said. “And you made it easy for me.”

He pulled a photo from the file and slid it across the desk to Cochrane. The main part of the photo was a police shot of Philippe Revior lying dead in the snow. A smaller inset in the upper right-hand corner showed a handgun laid out on a white cloth. The gun looked terribly familiar to Cochrane.

“You are a murderer, Mr. Cochrane.”

Cochrane squirmed.

“Do not be shy,” Djemma insisted, “this is true. It is only by the poor placement of security cameras that the world doesn’t know this already. If you attempt to leave, or to cross me or continue to drag your feet, I will be sure the story gets out. For proof, I have the gun with your fingerprints all over it.”

Cochrane’s face tightened in a look of disgust. He was trapped and he knew it. Whatever Djemma had in mind, Cochrane would have to make it work or his life would be forfeited in the bargain.

After stewing in silence for a moment, Cochrane finally spoke. “You know I wouldn’t cross you. It’s worth too much to me to finish.”

“And yet you fail.”

“Only on your timetable.”

Djemma shook his head. “It cannot be changed.”

Cochrane was afraid of that. It meant he would have to own up to the truth. “Fine,” he said. “I will do what I can. But there are only two ways to get the weapon more power. Either we need better materials or, if you want it done more quickly, I’ll need some help.”

Djemma smiled and even began to laugh, as if it brought him great joy to have pried this confession out of Cochrane. “You finally admit it,” he said. “You have promised more than you can deliver. You are in over your head.”

“It’s not like that,” Cochrane insisted. “The system is—”

“You’ve had a year and a half and every dollar you’ve asked for,” Djemma growled. “Dollars that could have brought food and housing to my people.”

Cochrane looked around. The palace was immense, and built of imported stone and marble. Gold-plated fixtures sprouted from every bathroom. What about those dollars?

“It’s an incredibly complex machine,” Cochrane said. “To get it right may require assistance.”

Djemma looked down at Cochrane, his eyes burning holes in Cochrane’s mind much the way the weapon was supposed to.

“I know this already,” the African leader said. “Go back to your work. You will get your materials and your help. This much I promise you.”

10

Santa Maria Island, the Azores, June 17

THE INHABITANTS OF VILA DO PORTO spotted the sleek lines of the NUMA vessel Argojust after noon local time. Because the Argohad originally been built for the Coast Guard and designed for rescue work, law enforcement, and interdiction, her profile was that of a small warship: long, lean, angular.

Two hundred fifty years prior, the appearance of such a ship, or the equivalent type in its day, would have been studied cautiously from the streets and the watchtowers of the Forte de São Brás.

Built in the sixteenth century, with cannon mounted high on sturdy walls of stone and mortar, the fort was now a Portuguese naval depot, housing personnel and local authorities, though few vessels from their navy visited the island regularly.

As the Argodropped anchor outside the harbor, Kurt Austin considered the act of piracy he’d recently witnessed and the fact that such acts were on the rise worldwide. He doubted such forts would be needed again, but he wondered when the nations of the world would grow angry enough to band together and begin fighting piracy on an international level.

From what he’d heard, the sinking of the Kinjara Maruhad sent shock waves around the maritime community, and tough talk was growing. That was a good step, but something in Kurt’s mind told him the talk would fade before any real action occurred, and the situation would remain unsatisfactory and unchanged.

Whatever the outcome, another thought had dominated Kurt’s mind, even as he’d repeated his story in conversations with Interpol, with the Kinjara Maru’s insurers, and with several maritime antipiracy associations.

They steered all questions toward the notion of piracy and seemed to ignore Kurt’s point that pirates didn’t sink ships they could steal or kill crew members they could ransom.

His thoughts were acknowledged, and then, it seemed to him, filed away and most likely forgotten. But Kurt didn’t forget them any more than he could forget the sight of crewmen being gunned down as they tried to flee, or Kristi Nordegrun’s strange story about the lights flickering, a screaming noise inside her head, and blacking out until daylight came.

Something more was going on here. Whether the world wanted to acknowledge it or not, Kurt had a bad feeling they would be forced to in time.

With the Argostanding down, Captain Haynes gave most of the crew shore leave. They would be here for two weeks while Kurt and Joe finished their testing and competed in the Submarine Race. During that time a skeleton crew would remain aboard the Argo, with a different group rotating on and off every few days.

The captain’s last words of advice to the crew was to keep their noses clean and stay out of trouble, as the islanders were known to be pleasant but not the kind to put up with rowdy outsiders, having detained many, including the crew of none other than Christopher Columbus himself.

As Austin stepped off the Argo’s tender in the shadow of the Forte de São Brás, he wondered what that reputation might mean for his good friend Joe Zavala. Joe was a solid citizen, but he tended to immerse himself in the social scene wherever he went, and while Joe wasn’t a troublemaker, he liked mischief and he loved his fun.

When Kurt arrived at the shop where the Barracudawas being prepared, Joe was nowhere to be found. A security guard laughed when asked about him.

“You’re just in time to see him fight,” the guard said. “Over at the rec center, if he hasn’t been knocked out by now.”

Kurt took this news suspiciously, got directions to the recreation center, and double-timed it over there.

Stepping inside, Kurt found his way to a large gymnasium from which the sounds of an excited crowd were flowing.

He opened the door to find a crowd of two or three hundred sitting on bleachers arranged around a boxing ring. It wasn’t exactly Madison Square Garden, but the place was packed.

At the sound of the bell, the crowd rose and cheered and stamped their feet until the building shook. Kurt heard the scuffling sounds of feet on canvas and then the thwap-thumpof fists in padded gloves exchanging blows.

He made his way down the aisle and got a glimpse of the action in the ring. He saw Joe Zavala in red trunks. His friend’s short black hair was all but hidden under the protective headgear he wore. But as Joe shuffled back and forth, moving lightly on his feet, his rugged, rangy frame and his tanned, well-muscled arms and shoulders glistened with the sheen of sweat.

Across from Joe, in black trunks and headgear, Kurt saw a larger man. In fact, he looked like some version of the Norse god Thor. At least six-foot-four, with blond hair, blue eyes, and a chiseled physique, Joe’s opponent moved with far less grace but threw punches like bolts of thunder.

Joe dodged one, ducked another, and then backpedaled away. For a moment he looked a little bit like middleweight champion Oscar De La Hoya – a comparison that would have made Joe proud. Then he stepped in, landed a few punches that seemed to have no effect, and suddenly looked less like the middleweight superstar as a thundering right hand from Thor caught him in the side of the head.

The crowd gasped, especially a line of women in the front row. Joe stumbled away, grabbed the ropes in front of the women, adjusted his headgear, and smiled. Then he turned and kept moving until the bell rang again.

By the time Joe reached his corner, Kurt was already there.

Joe’s trainer gave him water and hit him with the smelling salts.

Between deep breaths and a few more sips of water, Joe spoke. “About time you showed up.”

“Yeah,” Kurt said. “Looks like you’re wearing him down,” he added. “If he keeps hitting you in the head like that, his arms are gonna get tired.”

Joe swished the water around in his mouth, spat some out, and then looked over at Kurt. “I got him right where I want him.”

Kurt nodded, finding that doubtful. Joe had boxed in high school, college, and the Navy, but that was a long time ago.

“At least you have some fans,” Kurt said, nodding toward the front row, which included a group ranging in age from a college girl with a flower in her hair to several women that might have been Joe’s match in years to a pair of older women who were way overdressed and too well made-up for such an event.

“Let me guess,” Kurt said. “You’re fighting to defend their collective honor.”

“Nothing like that,” Joe said, as his trainer dunked Joe’s mouth guard and then stuffed it back in his mouth. “I ram ober sombone’s cow.”

The bell pinged, and Joe stood, clapped his gloves together, and went back out to do battle.

Joe’s words had been muffled by the mouth guard, but it sounded to Kurt like he’d said I ran over someone’s cow.

This round went quickly, with Joe dodging the thunderbolts and then landing a few jabs on Thor’s midsection. He might as well have been punching a stone wall. When Joe made it back, he was noticeably winded.

“You ran over a cow?” Kurt asked.

“Actually, I just bumped into him,” Joe said breathing hard.

“Was it the God of Thunder’s cow?” Kurt asked, nodding toward Joe’s opponent.

“No,” Joe said. “One of the ranchers here.”

Kurt did not feel the fog of confusion lifting. “How does that turn into a boxing match?”

“There are rules here,” Joe said, “but no fences. The cows wander everywhere, out onto the roads and everything. If you hit a cow at night, it’s the cow’s fault. But if you hit a cow in the day, it’s your fault. I bumped into one at dusk. Apparently, that’s, ah… una zona gris: a gray area.”

“So you have to fight to the death in a cage match?” Kurt said, joking.

“Does this look like a fight to the death?” Joe asked.

“Well…”

“The guy whose cow I hit owns the gym. The Scandinavian guy over there moved here and became the local amateur champ a year ago. The islanders like him but would rather see someone else as champ, someone who looks more like them.”

Kurt smiled. With his Latin background, Joe looked far more like the islanders than Thor did.

The bell rang again, and Joe answered it, stepping up and trying to get inside the Scandinavian man’s long reach. It was dangerous work, but aside from a few glancing blows Joe seemed to be holding his own, and the Scandinavian seemed to be slowing.

Joe sat down again, and Kurt changed the subject.

“I need to talk to you about the Barracuda,” he said.

“What about it?”

“Can it dive to sixteen thousand feet?”

Joe shook his head. “It’s not a bathysphere, Kurt. It’s designed for speed.”

“But could you modify it to do the job?”

“Yeah,” Joe said. “By putting it inside a bathysphere.”

Kurt went silent. Joe was a genius with machines. Still, he could work only within the laws of physics.

Joe rinsed his mouth and spat.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” he said. “What’s on the bottom of the Atlantic that you want to take a look at?”

“You heard about what happened the other day?”

Joe nodded. “A ship almost fell on your head.”

“It did,” Kurt said. “I’d like to get a better look at it now that it’s all safe and sound on the bottom.”

The bell rang, and Joe stood, his eyes on Kurt. He seemed to be thinking. “There might be a way,” he said, a gleam shining in his eyes.

By that moment, Joe had lingered too long. The God of Thunder had roamed across the ring.

“Look out,” Joe’s cornerman shouted.

Joe turned and ducked, covering up, as the haymaker glanced off his raised arm. He stepped back into the ropes, protecting himself, as the other fighter fired blows at him, left and right.

Suddenly, Kurt felt horrible for his friend, as what was supposed to be a friendly match looked more like a one-sided beating. Partly his fault for distracting Joe. If it had been a wrestling match, he’d have grabbed a folding chair and slammed it over Thor’s shoulders. But he guessed that wouldn’t do for Queensbury rules.

Thor’s gloves made a heavy thumping sound as they slammed into Joe’s arms, ribs, and head.

“Rope-a-dope,” Kurt shouted, throwing out the only boxing advice he could think of.

His voice was drowned out by the roar of the crowd. Meanwhile, Joe’s cheerleaders gasped. The older women looked away as if they couldn’t watch.

With little room to maneuver, Joe continued to cover up, unable to even open his arms and clinch the other fighter. Kurt looked at the clock. This was the last round, but there was over a minute to go.

It didn’t look like Joe would make the bell. Then a moment presented itself. As the Scandinavian wound up to deliver another hammer blow, he opened himself up.

At that very instant, Joe dropped his shoulder and fired an uppercut. It caught Thor on the chin and snapped his head backward. From the look of things, Thor hadn’t expected anything but defense from Joe at that point. Kurt saw the man’s eyes roll as he stumbled backward.